Knowing
by freeflow
Summary: Knowledge is power - but it is in the learning that our true strength is forged.


A/N: Browsing through Photobucket one day, I happened to type the word 'Iruka' into the search engine. Lo and behold, almost every picture I came across involved the adorable Iruka sharing a scene with the incomparable Kakashi. And then this little ficlet popped up, and as I've always loved Naruto but never had the inspiration (or patience/talent!) to really devote time to the oodles of fantastic characters therein, I thought, better post this whilst you've got the 'bug'. So, here it is. Short, incomprehensible, but cathartic. And I love this pairing. Guh.

Disclaimer: I do not own nor claim to have invented the recognisable characters or settings used in this work; they are the property of Masashi Kishimoto and his estate. This is a work of fiction created for entertainment purposes only; no financial gain is being made.

Knowing

He hardly knew him.

He'd always thought that, right from the start.

Even that first time, when he'd held his breath and waited for the world to stop spinning and everyone to just _know_ what they'd done. When he'd been excited and jittery and lost and enraptured and a little mystified, he'd thought that. They hardly knew each other.

Even in those other instances, those intricate, sweltering, conjoined, roiling moments that surged into a fluttering deep in his stomach whenever he thought back on them, he'd known.

They spoke. They'd yelled, more often than not. He'd meet him for ramen whenever he deigned to appear, swooping in with a gust of leaves and dust, stooped and saluting, one palm raised and eyes hidden behind mask and facade.

They'd eat, sometimes in silence, him reading, _ogling_, the other, sedate, wondering.

He'd ask about the kids, about Naruto, their training and progression. He'd receive one or two word answers and flickering fingers, telling little but painting pictures with chuffs of laughter and a proud light blinking in his one visible eye.

He'd go missing for weeks at a time and saunter back into the village with nary a word of apology or explanation.

_He'd_ go out of his mind with worry, then act completely nonchalant when he appeared in his window at the setting of the sun.

Time went by, and they took it all as each day presented it, teaching and learning, growing stronger and more dependent, snatching the warmth of a close body and the fleeting pleasures it could bring until the morning dawned and they broke apart once more. No waves or farewells. Just a hasty tug to ponytail, a straightening of hitae-ate. And if fingers lingered a second too long, or brushed nape or forehead, then it was only the early hour, the clumsiness of a deep sleep interrupted that caused it.

Friends died and genins were teamed and they still carried on, re-routing to the memorial in the evening as the dates came and went, faster and faster, or so it seemed.

They never talked about it, though. Those that had left, those they feared for.

They never asked each other what they thought or how they felt, unless it was in the height of passion, in the burn of an embrace, in the torture of withheld ecstasy.

They fought together, but separately, each aware of their own strength and always, always keeping their most obvious weakness in their peripheral vision.

It continued, and the seasons passed. And he could not ask him the questions he should have done at the start. Didn't want to hear answers he had already learned through touch and feel and time.

But they didn't know each other. If anything, everything they'd thought they'd known had been proved wrong so many times that almost every day, they'd be stymied by a word, a gesture, a shrug.

Although every moment they'd learn something new, they still could never say that they _knew_ each other.

But spring came round again, and Iruka could not complain.

Another year of getting to know Kakashi had its advantages. And genius or not, his partner had an awful lot still to learn.

Luckily, Iruka had always been a damned good teacher.


End file.
